Prince of Blades
by chrissie
Summary: Gen. Meet the Ittoryu in TeniPuriverse.


Prince of Blades

Forehand, backhand, strain and sweat, like an endless summer afternoon that stretched throughout the year. No formal training sessions to endure -- the captain himself wound up absent more often than not -- but results were expected; success was a requirement.

"Oi, young Magatsu, join us for a beer later?" That from Araya, squatting by the fence with thermos in hand. Loose, his hair brushed the ground, picking up stray motes of dust as Taito watched it sway and sway. He wasn't sure what kind of statement it aimed for, but did take the opportunity to note that it would be easy to tread on before claiming accident.

"No thanks, I've got -- y'know, whatsit. Plans."

"Girl on the side? When you gonna introduce her to your sempai, eh?"

Anotsu wouldn't mind that level of sabotage, he thought. Inter-team disputes were to be resolved swiftly, discreetly and with finality, aggression expressed and channeled rather than repressed, or so the charter ran in Anotsu's impeccable handwriting. Only when situations turned to property destruction or a lapse in formal competition did the manager swoop in and kick ass, all pristine white blouse and indecent tennis skirt reaching halfway up her thigh.

Nobody wanted that; it never looked good when word got out that you'd been beaten up by a girl.

"Don't corrupt the kid," said Kuroi from the other end of the court, swathed in layers of cloth despite their exertions. Only his scalp gleamed in the sun. (Anotsu always managed somehow to pit Kuroi against Rikkai's Jackal, which only went to show that their leader did have a sense of humor, however well-hidden.) Taito scowled and smashed an ace across the net.

He hadn't noticed the gate open, but they all paused as the newcomer spoke: "No kids on this team, Kuroi. How many times should I repeat that for you?"

Kuroi grinned. "Ah, my skull's a little thick; maybe a few more."

"Kuroi-kun has a very noble skull," Otono-Tachibana murmured with her eyes downcast, half a step behind the captain as usual. She made her way towards the equipment shed, and you could mark her progress by the turning heads -- that flirty little skirt used to draw the gaze of almost every member of the tennis team, and the audience as well; now, they all avoided it studiously. Only Anotsu never seemed either attracted or intimidated, but of course he could look his full in private, lucky bastard. At the moment he was looking at Araya.

"What's the score?"

"What, I'm a scorekeeper now? You paying me for that?" When Araya grinned, the gaps in his teeth showed themselves. Araya's skull was thick, too.

"3-5, my serve," Taito said to forstall further delay of the game, and watched Anotsu's regard to swivel to him. The earrings in Anotsu's ears flashed as his head turned -- seven of them now, two more than when the semester started, but no one called him fag anymore, not since the incident with the flagpole. The guy could wear a dress to school tomorrow and they'd call it loose trousers.

"I don't have to tell you what happens if you lose this game."

"No." It sounded like 'No, sir.' He turned back to the court and served; this time Kuroi returned it, and they spent a few minutes volleying. Kuroi was going easy on him, not out of kindness but out of contempt. Taito gritted his teeth.

Infuriating, but that was what you did -- gritted your teeth and stood for it, because in the end there was no other team like the Itto-Ryu.

A bunch of crazies they all were: Araya the pervert and Kuroi the dirty poet, Supergirl Otono-Tachibana, Higa who never went to class and always scored head of his grade, all the rest, and leading them the headmaster's grandson, expressionless gothboy Anotsu who put people in the hospital without repercussions and without a backwards glance. In the Itto-Ryu you were who you were and no one else gave a damn. You couldn't find a better package anywhere in Japan.

Taito sweated, gritted his teeth, and set out to win the game.

miscellaneous main comment


End file.
